


One

by TheSushiMonster



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-24
Updated: 2014-05-24
Packaged: 2018-01-26 07:20:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1679660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSushiMonster/pseuds/TheSushiMonster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Do you believe in soulmates?” Fitz and Jemma discuss the science of soulmates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One

“Do you believe in soulmates?”

Fitz frowns, massaging his temples as he silently catalogues the mountain of scrap metal arrayed on his desk. “I never really thought about it,” he says, glancing over at Jemma. She’s carefully measuring a light pink liquid into a vial, goggles tightly fastened to her face, accentuating her pinched nose. “You?”

Jemma carefully places the vial in a holder. “I was studying for thermo - “ Fitz opens his mouth to object, but Jemma rolls her eyes, barely pausing as she removes her gloves, “ - you were sleeping in and skipping lecture,” she says without looking at him and FItz bites down on his blush. “And it talked about the first law - and I had a thought,” she says, hands still now and clutching the desk. Fitz feels his chest alight as he waits for her to look at him, bright eyes and steady smile. “Maybe two microbes were alive together, were _one_ , and when that energy moved on - “ Jemma exhales, slowly, and maybe Fitz breathes in time with her. “Maybe they found each other again. Maybe the carbon in me now used to be apart of the same organism as the carbon in you.”

Jemma does not believe in magic or fate or destiny, Fitz knows - but the wonder that burns through her flickers at science, at possibilities, and Fitz grins. “Maybe we used to be a monkey.”

Jemma rolls her eyes. “I highly doubt that - perhaps a starfish.” She leans over her desk so she’s right at his eye level. And maybe Fitz scoots his chair closer so the ends of her breaths linger over his skin. “Maybe our atoms came from Alexander the Great.”

Fitz wonders how maniacal eyes - bright and mesmerizing and magnetized by the unknown - can strengthen the pull in his heart. Even without speaking, she sings, freckles spread across her skin reading cursive scripts of potential.  

Fitz swallows. “So - not soulmates,” he says, his finger drawing nonsensical patterns on his desk, “but - atom-mates.”

“Exactly,” she says, wide smile bright.

“So you and I are atom-mates, right?” asks Fitz, hypnotized by the reflections of silver in her golden laughter’s dance. “It only makes sense.”

The white lines of her face soften to a glow. “It does,” she says.

Jemma takes his palm, lingering scratches stinging against her soft skin. Her finger traces the lines, spelling something unspoken in spirals and curves, but Fitz can barely breathe in his hazy vision. Her thumb lingers over the center of his palm and he forces himself to stop watching his hands - so he finds her eyes instead. Her eyes are dancing. They do not leave his.

_I love you_ , she says in her gentle caress and bitten lip.

_I love you too_ , he says in his rapidly blinking gaze and blushing neck.

When her hand retreats, Fitz doesn’t feel cold.

Jema stands and stares and Fitz stares back.

“It was definitely a monkey.” Fitz doesn’t pretend there isn’t a secret hidden there.

Jemma just rolls her eyes. She doesn’t pretend she doesn’t understand.

(It’s the day before Jemma receives a letter with a confidential stamp, accompanied by men in suits with sharp haircuts.)

* * *

 

His head hurts and the morphine makes his already cloudy thoughts heavier. And yet, Fitz doesn’t mind that the best way to keep his left arm from shaking is for Jemma to wrap herself around it.

The perimeters of his memories blur between sepia and dark black, the erasing mist flickering in between periods he can’t define. But Jemma is warm and present and there. And even though rusty gears tear into his skull when he thinks, he remembers her soft hands and her warm smile. He remembers the light traces of her skin against his and shared carbon crystallines that glitter whenever she touches him.

Ever since he wakes up, Jemma never stops touching him.

Her fingers outline his palm, the ghost of her skin a vibrant echo.

“It was definitely a monkey,” she says, watching the unconscious twitches of his fingers. So she doesn’t see his half-surprised, half-confused grin, torn between the quick fire spreading through him and the glowing ache in his chest.

He doesn’t know what to say: so he kisses her hair.

Jemma kisses his jaw in answer. Curled into his side, she grins into his shoulder. Her breath is warm against his skin. “Definitely a monkey.”

(It’s the day after Jemma receives a written report with a laundry list of possibilities, but the only thing that matters is the first bullet, bolded and highlighted and screaming off the page - _he’s awake_.)


End file.
